


Left with what you had

by Builder



Series: Missing Moments [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Missing Scene, Motion Sickness, Not Like That, Overuse of elipses, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Showering with clothes on, Sickfic, Vomiting, almost, and italics, mentions of sexual abuse, not quite, showering together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 22:12:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11322741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Bucky's overwhelmed with motion sickness on the drive to T'Challa's palace......and with memories once they get there.





	Left with what you had

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the events of CA:CW, but before the post-credits scene where Bucky goes back into cryo.
> 
> Hopefully this is not too intensely difficult to follow. It's another attempt for me to get in Bucky's brain, so it's supposed to be confusing to an extent, but not to the point that it's impossible to understand. For best effect, read slowly and pay attention to font changes.
> 
> Title from Candlebox's Far Behind
> 
> Trigger warnings: read the tags, per usual.
> 
> Visit me on Tumblr @Builder051 (It's a lovely sickfic blog).

 Bucky starts feeling sick on the ride from the tiny cluster of buildings that make up the Wakandan Airport to T'Challa's sprawling estate.  The road, though it's paved, has definitely seen better days.  The jeep must have over-inflated tires; it bounces excessively over the cracked asphalt.  Bucky lets his shoulders slide a few inches sideways and rests his temple against the cool glass of the window.  He shouldn't have taken this seat.  For whatever reason, being on the driver's side of the car and not driving is giving Bucky vertigo.

  
"You ok?" Steve asks, clapping a hand down on Bucky's shoulder that is not wedged between the seat and the door.  
  
"Ah, yeah," Bucky says, shifting his head to watch the rolling terrain through the greasy forehead-print he's made on the window.  
  
"You sure?" Steve presses.  
  
"Yeah, 's just...I don't know," Bucky mutters, carding his fingers through his hair and letting the stump of his metal arm rest back against the window.  He's been detached for so long, and his mind won't stop flickering.  **_He is the Asset, his one-track mind used his body as a tool to execute the mission.  He isn't allowed to feel..._**  
  
"Carsick?" Steve offers.  
  
Bucky lets out a deep exhale and shrugs under Steve's hand.  Maybe.  He's not used to any of this: eating food with any flavor, enjoying the view like a passenger, having people talk to him like he's a human being.  All of it's overwhelming.  
  
"You never did like that seat," Steve says with a slight chuckle at the memory.  "You remember that summer, it must've been around, oh, '38 or '39, when we borrowed that car with the guys who lived across the hall and drove to Jersey Shore?"  
  
It doesn't really ring a bell.  
  
"We sat in the backseat, and you were there in the driver's side seat," Steve nods at Bucky's current location, "And you got so sick.  I thought it had to be payback for all the times you had to take care of me when my stomach wasn't doing so great." He shakes his head and laughs quietly again.  
  
Bucky frowns.  Memories don't come back in neat episodic chunks.  He thinks for a moment, but it's like chasing a dream into an enormous void at the center of his brain.  The vertigo ratchets up as he shifts his focus to his external body again.  
  
Steve strokes his hand down Bucky's arm.  "I'm sure we could stop for a minute, if you want.  Get some air, shuffle around."  
  
"Nah, 's fine," Bucky mumbles.  
  
"Alright," Steve concedes.  "But it's ok if you need to."  
  
_**It's not, though.**  _ The Wakandan military guard driving the jeep has two guns on his belt and another concealed at the small of his back.  The second guard in the front passenger seat has an assault rifle across his knees.  **_Probably to punish the Asset if he deviates from the mission..._**  
  
**_Except he's not the Asset.  There is no mission._  ** The lack of sense of purpose further increases Bucky's dizziness.  He scrubs his wrist across his eyes, then brings it down to dab clammy sweat from his upper lip.  The light contact of his own skin against his face carries the realization that his head is throbbing.  He can taste the plain turkey sandwich Steve had bought for him before they'd boarded the plane.  Bucky swallows hard and takes a deep breath to steady himself.  
  
Bucky drops his hand back into his lap, and Steve wraps his fingers in his own.  He can see Steve's concerned expression in his peripheral vision, but it hurts to focus on anything that's not straight ahead.  
  
The jeep bounces over a pothole full of gravel and turns onto what is either a narrow dirt road with a visible dead end or a quarter-mile long driveway.  "We have nearly arrived," the Wakandan driver says to the jeep at large.  "The compound is at the end of the path."  
  
**_The target is located within the compound, Soldier..._**  
  
"Great," Steve says.  
  
Bucky takes another hefty swallow and rotates so the entirety of his forehead is smashed into the window.  The taste at the back of his mouth turns bitter, and the lower half of his face feels heavy and numb.  
  
"Buck?"  Steve squeezes Bucky's hand.  "You ok?"  
  
It takes a minute for Bucky to find words, then enough breath to speak them.  "I don't...feel good."  
  
"Yeah," Steve sighs.  "I know you don't.  Do you need to stop?"  
  
"Almost there," Bucky breathes.  
  
"Yeah, but, if you need.It's fine," Steve says, massaging Bucky's clammy palm.  
  
"Hm," Bucky breathes, lifting his head a centimeter.  The jeep bumps over the uneven surface and his brow slams back against the glass.  The impact doesn't hurt, but it layers throb over throb inside his aching skull.  
  
Bucky jams his teeth together and takes slow, shallow breaths through his nose.  He tries to focus on the view out the window.  The horizon is hidden behind the approaching stone wall and sprawling buildings.  The jeep slows to an almost-stop a few yards from the wall, and more armed guards swing open a narrow gate.  The driver bounces the vehicle through the opening and pulls up sideways, idling the jeep parallel to the front of the luxurious-looking stone and glass building.  
  
"T'Challa will meet you and show you in," the driver says.  
  
"Ok," Steve says.  
  
Bucky doesn't say anything.  He is grateful there isn't a seatbelt restraining him as he fumbles with the door handle and slides out of the jeep on wobbly legs.  He stumbles one step away from the vehicle, then slams the door shut and braces himself against it with his right forearm.  He feels like he can barely breathe around the nausea rising in his throat.  
  
"Hey, Buck," Steve says, rounding the back of the jeep and coming up behind him.  
  
Bucky swallows convulsively and drops his head to the back of his hand.  He gags and whispers, "Fuck."  
  
"It's ok," Steve soothes.  
  
Bucky heaves and vomits onto the dirt path, splashing the jeep's door and his shoes with undigested sandwich and bile.  He manages a shaky breath and a cough before he retches again. "Damnit," Bucky chokes under his breath.  **_Unable to complete mission.  Asset is malfunctioning..._**  
  
"It's alright, Buck.  It's fine," Steve says, rubbing a line down between Bucky's shoulder blades.  
  
"You've fallen ill," a deep, concerned voice says.  Bucky glances up to see T'Challa has arrived and is standing level with the jeep's hood.  
  
"Sorry.  'm fine," Bucky says hoarsely before he lurches forward again as more comes up.  "Ah, fuck."  
  
"Ok, it's ok," Steve says, stepping around Bucky so he's between him and T'Challa, providing an incomplete veil of privacy.  
  
Bucky hacks and spits, then wipes his mouth on the shoulder of his T-shirt.  He breathes heavily, his head spinning.  Bucky feels his entire body trembling.  
  
"Come inside," T'Challa says.  "You can lie down."  
  
"You feel up to walking a little bit?" Steve asks, wrapping his arm around Bucky's back to support him.  
  
Bucky hesitates.  Is this a trap?  He can't recall if T'Challa is a friend or enemy.  
  
**_These are my friends.  They're going to help us..._**  
  
**_You wanna ride with us?  There are gonna be plenty of dames at the beach this weekend..._**  
  
**_Into the chair, Soldier.  You need to be fixed..._**  
  
Steve looks at him expectantly, and Bucky can't remember the question.  He feels awful, though, so he coughs and nods weakly.  
  
"Ok," Steve says.  He nods at T'Challa and pulls Bucky slightly away from the jeep.  
  
After the first few slow, tremulous steps, Bucky brushes Steve off, determined to walk on his own.  He's mortified, and the only way he can think to make up for it is to stiffen.  **_He is following orders..._**  
  
"Here is the wing for guests," T'Challa says, gesturing to the large glass-paneled doors in front of them.  They enter the building, and the quality of the light changes to a brighter, happier quality than the cloudy almost-dusk outside.  For some reason, it's jarring to Bucky, and he sways on his feet, swallowing a gag.  
  
T'Challa reaches out to steady him.  "Are you alright?"  
  
**_What's wrong with you, Soldier?_**  
  
"Fine," Bucky chokes.  
  
"Here," T'Challa points to the first door down a hallway.  "Will be your room."  He keeps one hand on Bucky, not minding the stump metal arm resting on his shoulder as he guides his guest.  
  
Once over the threshold, Bucky sinks down onto the foot of the bed, his elbow on his knee and his head in his hand.  Steve squats and unlaces Bucky's vomit-spattered boots.  
  
"There are additional rooms if you would like," T'Challa explains.  It's phrased blandly enough, and Bucky's not good with subtext, but he wonders if the words thinly veil admonishment.  
  
**_The dull metal machine moves closer to his head.  You're a faggot, Soldier?  I hear they use electrotherapy to fix that in your country.  So this should not be new to you, then..._**  
  
Steve pulls Bucky's shoes off and looks up at him from where he's kneeling at the floor, his head roughly level with Bucky's crotch.  
  
**_The Asset has no emotions, does not feel love.  Lives to obey orders..._**  
  
"Thank you," Steve says, getting to his feet.  He moves the pillows so Bucky can recline, then ghosts his hand over Bucky's forehead.  
  
"I can ask the staff to send up supplies, medications," T'Challa offers.  "What will help him?"  
  
"I don't know," Steve answers.  "I think he just got carsick, but with all this...he's just been having a hard time."  
  
"I understand," T'Challa says.  "The bathroom is stocked with toiletries.  As well as the closet with clothes and linens."  
  
"Thanks," Steve says again.  "We probably need to hole up for the night.  We can reassess tomorrow?"  
  
"Certainly," T'Challa says.  "There is an intercom on the wall of each room.  Don't hesitate to get in touch if you need anything."  
  
"We will.  Thank you."  
  
T'Challa leaves the room, and Steve perches on the edge of the bed by Bucky's hip.  "How are you feeling?" he asks.  
  
**_The Asset does not feel..._**   Bucky moistens his lips.  "I don't know."  
  
"Do you still feel like you're going to throw up?"  
  
"I...don't think so."  
  
"Ok, that's good," Steve says.  "How about your headache?"  
  
"Huh?"  Bucky never said anything about the headache, though it's bad.  
  
"Yeah, you got that look," Steve says, rubbing the tense, bulging muscles between Bucky's metal stump and his neck.  
  
**_He's lying on the couch with the crook of his elbow pressed over his forehead, watching rain spatter against the dilapidated window, wads of newspaper stuffed around the edges of the frame, and a petite blonde figure hushes a screeching teakettle..._**  
  
"Eh," Bucky says.  He throws his forearm over his face and slides it down until his hand is poised to massage his throbbing forehead.  "I just...don't feel good.  I don't know."  
  
"Yeah, it's ok," Steve soothes.  "It's ok to get sick."  He rests his knuckles against Bucky's neck, under his chin.  "I don't think you have a fever.  Do you want to maybe drink some water?  Take a shower?"  
  
Bucky doesn't know what he wants, what will work to help him feel better.  He's not thirsty, but his mouth tastes bad.  His clothes aren't dirty, but he's sweaty.  He's exhausted, but he's barely exerted himself today.  "Yeah," Bucky whispers.  
  
"Alright," Steve says.  "I'll be right back."  He pats Bucky's shoulder and stands up, the bed shifting with the absence of the added weight.  
  
Bucky pushes himself up on his elbow and slumps against the headboard.  
  
**_He should see stark metal and concrete..._**  
  
**_Old wood and patchwork..._**  
  
He takes in the neutral white, grey, and pale green décor.  The room is well-appointed, much larger than what one person requires.  The bed is large, and it's flanked with two narrow wood tables topped with blown glass lamps.  There's a sofa and coffee table across the room, as well as a large TV.  A desk and lavish office chair are against the far wall, beside the open door to the bathroom where Steve is running the sink.  
  
A second later, he's offering Bucky a glass and a damp washcloth.  Bucky doesn't realize how much he's trembling until the glass is in his hand.  He takes a shaky sip and ends up spilling half of it down his front.  "Shit," he mutters.  **_The Asset is malfunctioning..._**  
  
"No, it's ok," Steve assures him, sitting on the edge of the bed again.  Bucky takes another sip and drains the glass.  Steve relocates the cup to the bedside table and proffers the wet cloth.  "Can I help you clean up a little?"  
  
Bucky nods.  The water clinging to his upper lip has the same disquieting effect as beading sweat.  He's feeling nauseous again, and he doesn't understand why.  
  
Steve passes the cool terry cloth over Bucky's cheek and jawline.  "Alright," he whispers.  The cloth rests on Bucky's forehead, and Steve's hand presses on top of it.  "Just try to relax, ok?"  
  
Bucky tries to unclench his jaw, but as soon as he does, it feels as if the energy ground between his molars sinks down his throat and into his stomach, where it burns like acid.  Heat prickles up his arms to the back of his neck, and before he can open his mouth to warn Steve, the washcloth tumbles into his lap as Bucky chokes up the water down the front of his already wet T-shirt.  
  
"Hey, ok," Steve says.  He pats Bucky's shoulder and hesitates as if unsure whether he should help him move or let him stay put.  
  
**_The Asset knows this sensation.  Too much cryo-prep solution.  The novice handler must have overfilled the bag connected to the NG tube..._**  
  
**_He's leaning out the door of the Toyota A1, a skinny arm holding him up from behind while peals of laughter come from the front seat..._**  
  
Bucky gags again, and Steve hauls him to his feet.  "Ok, come on."  
  
**_The blonde head bobs around his shoulder as he tries to clean himself up with a flimsy paper towel in the service station bathroom..._**  
  
**_The handler yanks down the Asset's jeans and shoves him into the wall in front of the dirty toilet.  He jams a defaced red, white, and blue comic book cover in the Asset's face.  Will you get it up if I show you his picture, Soldier?_**  
  
The plastic seat is cool under his cheek, as is the porcelain against his damp chest.  
  
**_The metal plates of the machine feel like ice against the Asset's face, until they burst into fire..._**  
  
Steve pats Bucky's back and whispers something softly.  
  
**_The handler's boot explodes against the Asset's lumbar spine as he hobbles back to his cell..._**  
  
Bucky feels like there's an ice pick driving into his sinuses.  Water and stomach acid splash into the toilet, and contaminated water flicks back up into his face.  
  
**_He's shoulder-to-shoulder with the blonde figure, who has his head poised over the commode.  Cold air seeps through a crack in the wall, serving as a reminder that winter and flu season are far from over..._**  
  
Bucky's vision flickers and he tips sideways.  
  
"Whoa, ok."  Steve gets one hand under his metal stump and the other cushioning his ear so he can lower Bucky onto the bathroom floor.  He snakes down onto his elbows and lays on his side.  He grabs Bucky's upward-facing shoulder and digs his thumb into the muscle as he calls his name.  "Buck?  Buck, can you hear me?"  
  
**_The Asset's faceplate skitters across the concrete.  The blonde man on the highway stares at him and asks..._**  
  
"Hey, you with me?"  
  
Bucky peels his eyes open and squints into Steve's face.  He's grateful the lights are off; just the reflection of the bedroom lamps in Steve's eyes is making his head throb.  **_Where the fuck are they?_**  
  
"Huh?" Bucky grunts out, hoping it both answers Steve's question and poses his own.  Forcing out more coherent syllables is really not on his to-do list right now.  
  
"You're safe, ok?  You're with me," Steve says.  "You're fine."  
  
Bucky collapses forward into Steve's collarbones, and Steve runs his hand under Bucky's arm so he can smooth his long hair back from his sweaty face.  Bucky feels Steve's heartbeat against his own chest, as well as the slow, even waves of Steve's breathing.  
  
They stay there completely still for a moment, and then Steve's lips come to press against Bucky's forehead.  
  
**_He bends over the blonde, who is in bed with fever-flushed cheeks, and sneaks a kiss onto his temple..._**  
  
"Do you know where you are?" Steve whispers.  
  
Bucky hesitates.  "Brooklyn?"  
  
"Hmmm," Steve says.  "Were you in Brooklyn just now?"  
  
Must be the wrong answer.  "Are.s'mewhere else?"  
  
"Yeah," Steve sighs.  "But Brooklyn...that's...that's good."  He rests the pads of his fingers along Bucky's hairline.  "You feel like you can sit up, maybe?"  
  
"Can try," Bucky murmurs.  
  
"Ok."  Steve gets him around the chest, and after a moment of terrifying disorientation, Bucky's against the smooth tiled wall.  Steve rotates, still seated, and reaches around the richly embroidered shower curtain to turn on the water.  
  
Within a minute the room is steamy, loosening the mucous and emotion caught in Bucky's throat.  
  
**_He's supporting the blonde to lean over a pot of boiling water as he hacks on the fluid in his lungs, ignoring complaints about how this is going to unnecessarily raise the gas bill..._**  
  
"C'mere," Steve says.  He's on his feet, extending hands down to Bucky.  Bucky grasps Steve's left hand in his right and lets Steve pull him to his feet.  Bucky's torso is wet and cold, but Steve doesn't seem to care as he lets Bucky lean into him and negotiates both of them over the lip of the tub.  
  
Warm water sprays Bucky's back, soaking his T-shirt and jeans.  They're soggy within seconds, as is his hair.  Steve runs his fingers up and down Bucky's spine.  
  
"We're in...Wakanda?" Bucky whispers hesitantly into Steve's shoulder.  
  
"Yeah," Steve says.  "Yeah, good.  That's good." He massages the back of Bucky's head.  His fingertips slowly trail back down, and he rests one hand on either side of Bucky's waist.  
  
Bucky lifts his face out of Steve's collarbone and slowly drags his face up to make eye contact.  Steve's forehead is wrinkled in concern.  Bucky isn't sure what to say, or even how to attribute words to what he's feeling.  He slowly nods, inclining his head toward Steve's.  
  
They end up forehead to forehead and nose to nose.  Warm shower water collects in Bucky's hair and drips down his face.  He wonders for a fleeting second if it's tears that are running down his skin, but whatever emotion he's feeling hasn't liquefied yet.  
  
Steve's hands come in between their bodies and tease up under the hem of Bucky's T-shirt.  He carefully lifts the sodden fabric up Bucky's chest and over the shoulder of the metal stump.  Bucky bows his head so Steve can carry the neckline over his dripping hair.  Finally he caresses Bucky's right arm with the shirt as he maneuvers it down to his wrist.  
  
**_He has to sit on the edge of the bed in order to be short enough for the blonde boy to kiss his forehead and reach under his shirt to lovingly strip it up over his head..._**  
  
"We used to...?" Bucky murmurs, halfway between a statement and a question.  
  
Steve takes the waterlogged T-shirt from Bucky's wrist.  "You're thinking about us?  Back in Brooklyn."  
  
"I think so."  
  
Steve yanks his own wet shirt over his head, sending his water-darkened hair into spikes in all directions.  "What do you remember?"  
  
"I don't really...it's hard to...to make it...separate?"  Bucky palms his forehead as Steve plants his hands on Bucky's hips again.  "It's all just, ah, god..."  
  
The warm skin of Steve's abdomen presses against Bucky's, the waistband of his khakis surprisingly soft as it rubs an inch or so higher than the top of Bucky's jeans.  He can feel Steve through the two layers of fabric, beginning to harden against his hipbone.  
  
"We used to?" Bucky posits again.  
  
Steve doesn't answer at first.  He just brings one hand up to cup Bucky's stubbly cheek.  
  
**_The handler pokes against the back of the Asset's bare thigh before shoving him face down on the cot..._**  
  
**_He's face-to-face with the blonde boy, both giggling uncontrollably with pleasure and awkwardness as their erections rub against each other for the first time..._**  
  
"Yeah, Buck," Steve whispers.  
  
Bucky's forehead is pressed into Steve's shoulder again.  He absorbs the feeling of warm shower spray on his bare back and convinces himself that he's.present.  
  
"You want...?" Bucky asks.  Steve's huge and hard against him, and Bucky's not.  Not because he completely doesn't want, but because he's just...not.  Not ready.  
  
Steve sighs.  "I want....you..." he pauses.  "To get what you need."  He presses his nose into the side of Bucky's head and kisses his hair.  "If you just need to settle your stomach, that's all I want to happen."  
  
"I don't know what I need," Bucky says.  
  
"That's ok.  I'll be here for you when you figure it out."  
  
**_He's back on the couch, shutting his eyes against the throb of his skull.  The blonde boy offers him tea, but the smell turns his stomach.  You help me all the time, I wanna be here for you..._**  
  
Bucky heaves a deep breath, and a tear finally falls, mingling with the shower water and dripping down Steve's shoulder.  Bucky sighs again, and thinks maybe his head doesn't hurt so much anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Now, what should come next? This is the last of my pre-written stuff. Anything else I post will have to be written from scratch, which takes anywhere from a couple of days to several years...
> 
> I have a couple of ideas, but I'm certainly open to suggestions (I think you've got a good idea of what I write: h/c, sickfic with lots of gross and lots of feels, raw emotion, trauma, soft boy love, you know.). In my head now I have outlines for a simple 5+1 and a deep, dark, trippy, convoluted thing about nightmares. If you have a preference or any reqs, let me know. No guarantees.
> 
> Bucky also has his own playlist on my phone, so let me know if you want to see that as well. (Won't be a fic, just a list. Maybe inspiration to share?)


End file.
